Rhapsodic
by MockingbirdSoul
Summary: Two fighting spirits, two beating hearts, and the ever-changing harmony only they can hear. Uraraka/Bakugou


Disclaimer: I do not own _My Hero Academia_ the manga, anime, or any other works under the series' name.

Pairing: Uraraka x Bakugou

Genres: Romance, Drama

Rating: T

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 **Rhapsodic**

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The tone of their relationship tended to change on its own whim, when they least expected it to. She had always likened what they had to a melody, something strummed to life by their hands and unique to the two of them. And yet, it never droned on like some stagnant stream, never blended into the background until it was some drowsy lullaby in the backs of their minds.

Perhaps it was because neither of them was one for monotony. He was just as dynamic as she was, bursting with his own thoughts and passions, always there to bounce off every note of hers with his own.

And so, she learned to read the distinct shifts in pitch, shape, and rhythm that the tune of their lives took together.

When she teased him, it was a jumble of notes in major key, playful and spirited. The chords she struck were usually met with snappish staccatos smashed in minor, varying in intensity and seriousness depending on his mood. Even his artful smatterings of expletives and many refrains of _"fuck you"_ were natural components in their little song and dance. On rarer occasions though, when she succeeded in drawing out the deep rumble of his chuckle, their laughter would chime like bells.

On the battlefield, they conducted symphonies through the orchestra of their quirks. His mid-air explosions were the bursts of percussion brought to a blistering prestissimo when she suspended his gravitational weight, sustaining him with the force of her own will and timing devastating fermatas with the press of her fingers. Timing was everything in their duet, and after building a strange sort of combat telepathy, so were a handful of nonverbal cues.

They still worked to fine-tune their performance, and that was where training came into play. Even when they stood opposing each other, there was always a synergy at work between them. Every strike, every evasion, every finisher was measured and methodical, dedicated to letting them learn each other inside-out, like two separate compositions merging until every note aligned in an ideal balance.

All this was usually in front of an audience, though. In the company of friends, they could play up the more lighthearted side of their dynamic for laughs. On camera, they dialed down the volume, and were the picture of professionalism before the public eye. It was only when they were out of others' range that inhibitions broke down, and the performance didn't matter so much as the feeling of being in tune with each other.

So, when they found themselves in solitude, their sound mellowed out, soft like acoustics. It didn't matter where they were – leaning over apartment railings, sprawled out on training mats, or under the stars after climbing to alpine heights. So long as it was with him, she could relieve her voice of the cheerful lilt she sometimes strained it to make, knowing that he wouldn't mishear her weariness as a call for help or think there was something wrong that she wasn't capable of handling on her own. Likewise, he could allow his booming baritone to soften in her presence, trusting that she wouldn't think lesser of him for the doubts and fears that sometimes snuck past his impervious veneer.

Of course, there wasn't always perfect harmony between them. They had their disagreements. Some jokes went too far. Tempers ran short. Petty squabbles crescendoed into fights that ended with bruised egos and sometimes bruised bodies after a particularly rough sparring match.

At times like this, they fell into quiet periods.

Distractions and unresolved issues muffled the melody to barely audible pulses, distorted to the point of being almost unrecognizable to either of them.

It never went completely silent, though. Never became so subdued so as to let them forget what they shared. Perhaps it was because neither of them was one to back down. She was just as stubborn as he was, rising to his every challenge without hesitation or fear, always there to meet his force with her own.

And so, when their feelings clashed, so did their fists.

Of course, they never lashed out at each other unprovoked. Quarreling aside, they cared too much about each other to ever think of crossing that line. There was always an unspoken understanding and agreement that would pass between them beforehand, a sense that the both of them could use this.

Unlike when they sparred with each other or tag-teamed against adversaries, these scraps were more spontaneous. Their movements were clumsy and out of sync, over-burdened by emotion.

Dissonant free-form. Raw and ugly. A roaring rhapsody.

She coughed and dragged humid night air through her lungs. The concrete court was cold beneath one of her hands while the other wiped at her mouth. A forgotten basketball rolled idly along the edge of the court. The sound of uneven, labored breathing that was not her own drew her dazed attention back up to him.

He was still on his feet, less winded than she was, but not by much. His shoulders rose and fell in unsteady succession, the scarlet of eyes burning bright enough to shine through the darkness of the hour.

Once upon a time, she would have never expected to recognize the glimmer of unshed tears in those eyes. How he merged fierceness with hurt and vulnerability in a single glare was beyond her. But then, he was capable of a lot of things she couldn't really explain.

"Is that all you got?" he demanded, and she couldn't tell whether it was the scorn or the wavering plea in his voice that made her push herself off the ground and charge for him again.

The thing about him was, he had this way of drawing things out of people. From the shadows of their minds, the deepest crevices of their beings. Powerful things. Dark things. Things they didn't know were there in the first place or pretended not to.

He did it the worst to himself, breaking bones and skin to bleed out all those thoughts and passions in the way he knew best. And underneath the cacophony of heavy blows, hisses and pained gasps, she heard the mournful dirge of feelings that words failed to convey. She had always been a good listener, and somewhere along the way, he had begun to trust the way she understood his feelings before and sometimes better than he did.

His trust, too, was something deep and powerful. Something he afforded only to those he deemed strong enough to receive those feelings. He had, for the most part, good judgement, and somewhere along the way, she had learned from him to never underestimate or forget her own strength.

Afterwards, once they collapsed into a heap beneath the basketball hoop, she looped her tired arms around him and pressed her forehead against the sweaty crook of his neck.

"Thanks," she whispered.

 _For believing in me._

The weight bearing down on her front eased as he propped himself on his elbows. It was still dark, but she could make out the faint sheen on his skin, vestiges of the fire in his eyes that had dimmed into warm glow.

"...You're thanking me for handing your ass to you?"

There was a rare teasing lilt in his voice, but she let it slide. He was roughed up enough to know this was far from a one-sided match. She only chuckled softly and wound her arms tighter around him.

"Something like that."

He hummed thoughtfully before murmuring, "Freak," and dipping his head low enough to nuzzle her hair.

He didn't thank her back. Not aloud, at least. With a rare gentleness, he turned them over she was laying on top of him instead of the hard ground, and let actions take the place of words. One hand running fingers through her hair. The other stroking down her back. Lips pressing occasionally to the top of her head, the apple of her cheek, the curve of her shoulder.

There was a joke to be made about how she literally had to fight him to be this openly affectionate with her, but maybe some other time. She figured she should enjoy this while it lasted, knowing full well that once this was over, he would make her walk back to the apartment on her own two feet.

But that was a little later on. For now, he was mindful of her bruises and tender areas, and wouldn't protest when she pulled herself up to ease off his own roughed-up spots. She could cradle the side of his face in her palm and trace the outline of his bottom lip with her thumb before letting her own lips descend over the same spot. She could bask in the quiet hymn of their kiss and bring her hand to rest over the spot where his heartbeat erupted in thunderous applause.

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 _Thanks for reading._


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